RMN Pt. 08: Chapel Tea Rooms

RestaurantMeetsNET -- Part 8 -- Chapel Tea Rooms

Revelation

Dad and I bid our last guest mourners farewell, and returned to the Function Room. Caroline had gone back to Mum and Dad's ... Dad's now ... to prepare us an evening meal.

Although Caroline and I are now divorced, we have remained friends; as our marriage, although not a 'sham', exactly, was more a 'marriage of convenience' -- I had my 'Cougars' (especially Mum and Marion); and she had her Silver Foxes (especially Reginald). After Reginald's wife died from complications from her dementia, he proposed to Caroline, and she jumped at her chance to be with him; he always having been her favourite.

Being only 3pm, and with the Room hired until 5pm, we were in no hurry to get away. But the staff could continue clearing and resetting the tables as they wished.

Dad and I took a soft chair each in a sofa/chair nest in the corner furthest from the tables. Dad nursed his half of sweet cider, and I had yet another coffee. Neither of us are drinkers, really; though I do enjoy some wines with a meal, and I do have a weakness for the occasional good single malt scotch.

We sat quietly for a while; but then, from his breathing and movements, I knew he was going to speak. What he then said surprised me.

"Your mother really loved you, you know?"

"Yeah. She was a good Mum."

"No, Freddie, I mean Loved you." and he stressed the 'Loved' part.

I looked at him quizzically, wondering exactly what he was getting at.

"Yeah?"

He nodded, solemnly, "Yeah!"

"OK."

"You still don't get it, do you?"

"Er ... what?"

"Loved ... you! The way a woman loves a man. But not as a son. And she has, ever since you fucked the stuffing out of her twenty-odd years ago, when that Meetings organisation you both belonged to tricked you into that Date."

I had frozen and was looking at him in wide mouthed, wide eyed horror.

I started to gabble, "Look, sorry, Dad I know it was bad, and illegal, but ... but I did love her so much. I'm sorry if we ... I ... hurt you!"

He flicked his hand as if waving away a fly, "Don't worry about it. Water under the bridge. But we, she and I, I mean; had some fucking hot sex over these intervening years -- that we ... I ... wouldn't have had without you."

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard! She'd come home from every one of your weekends together, so hot that she had usually taken her knickers off so that I could plug her as soon as she walked in the door.

"God! She was wonderful during the week following one of your trysts.

"Thank you! And I mean that from the heart!"

Explanation

We sat and pondered for a while. Me -- in uncertain, stunned silence.

"Er, Dad? How did you find out?"

He took a deep breath as he pondered getting the right words into the right order. And this is the tale he told: -

"When she got in, after your first weekend, she was stiff, and sore and achy, so she moved hesitantly. I demanded to know what was going-on. I was scared that she had been raped, or at least assaulted, and was trying to hide it from me.

"So, I pushed her. Not physically, you understand, just to get her to loosen up, and explain her condition to me.

"I was sitting on the corner unit of that old 'L' shaped sofa we had at the time, remember it?" I nodded. "She was sitting at the end of the long section. She broke-down into sobs, and through her snotty gasps and gulps I heard that it was because you two had been together.

"I jerked to my feet, and, I suppose -- roared or something. At least I raised my voice, 'Are you trying to tell me that our son raped you?'

"She jumped to her feet, rigid as a spike, snot and tears still sliding down her face. She faced me down, 'No! He would never do anything like that to me.' God! She looked magnificent. I even started to get a stiffy!

"Then her face crumpled, and she sagged back down to sit on the sofa, head in her hands, and started sobbing again, as she squeaked out, 'Yes!'

"I pushed again, 'So he did rape you!' She sat there sobbing and shaking her head, 'Yes.' ... 'No!' ... 'Yes, sort of,' ... 'But not really. It was sort of -- play -- bondage and domination.'

" 'Why did he do ... whatever he did do?'

" 'Because he's in Love with me ... he said. For years. And that he had been wanting to have sex with me ... for years. And, God forgive me Charlie ... but I've loved him for years ... been ... in love with him for years -- wanted him, for years. But, Christ Almighty, I don't know how he did it to me? There I'd been living with my love for you wrapped around me securely like this big, comfy, soft cocoon, and my love for him as a man crept into my soul, and enveloped you and I both. In the end, I couldn't separate my love for you from my love for him. You both held me comfortable, and secure.

" 'And then this weekend happened. I promise you, Charlie, I never made any moves on him, he did it all. He seduced me. And I was too weak with my lust for him to put up much of a stance against him. But he knew I was hesitant, not to say reluctant. So, he took ... steps ... to "allow" me to surrender to our lusts, he said -- but would allow me to participate "Guilt‑Free". Hence the bondage and "rape". Oh my God, Charlie, he was magnificent! Once he had my arms tied behind my back, and was able to put me into whatever position he wanted, I knew he had control, and so I ceded my will to him. He was awe inspiring!'

"I could tell that she had all but left our living-room, and gone back to that hotel room. Her eyes had a far-away look, she was gasping and breathing heavily, and her nipples looked hard enough to cut glass, even encased in her bra, as they were.

"She was looking so hot, and attractive, that I found myself edging closer to her along the sofa.

"I had to ask, 'So, what happed?'

"And she started to tell me. And she was getting further aroused by her memories. Once I was close enough, she subconsciously, it seemed, started to pluck at my sleeve, and then held my hand, then kissing it, then kissing my face, then hotly Frenching my mouth.

"Then she suddenly started going frantic, and started loosening my trouser waist‑band, then my flies, as she kissed, me, then she delved inside, grabbed my now raging stiffie, and begged me to 'Fuck her'. That's right -- she wanted me to 'Fuck her'. She'd never said the like to me before.

"Then, before I knew it I'd ripped open her blouse, and ripped loose her bra. I ripped her drenched knickers off and flung them away, as she pulled me into her with a deep satisfied smile, and groan, 'Oh God! Thank you, Charlie, this feels so good! Now fuck me Charlie, hard! I've had Freddie in and all over me all weekend, fucking me like the boy he still can be. Now I want to be fucked by the Master! Please Charlie!

"She lasted three 'fuck' strokes before she nearly deafened me and broke my back with her first orgasm. Ten strokes later it felt like she had turned into a vampire the way she bit my neck during her second orgasm. Another twenty, say, strokes -- and she stiffened up in silence for what seemed like minutes before she sagged and gasped-out, 'Oh thank you Charlie. I really, really needed that! My pussy's really sore now, but can we do more later? I've got so much to tell you. Love you!'

"And she fell asleep with such a wonderful smile on her lips, I wanted to wake her up for another 'fix' immediately, especially since I hadn't cum. But I let her sleep.

"As I sat up, I realised that we had done all that on the sofa, in full view of the window, and it was still daylight outside; but -- fortunately -- there wasn't a panel of judges with score cards outside.

"We didn't find her knickers until the next day. They had been so wet with her lubrication when I had stripped them off her, and flung them away, that when they settled into the shade on the stand-lamp in the opposite corner, they got baked in to it, so both the shade and knickers needed to be replaced.

"They formed the basis of our collection."

?

"Collection?" I asked.

"I'll show it to you some time. She kept virtually everything from your weekends together.

"Like -- do you remember her Angel costume?"

"Oh, yes."

"Do you remember that you were so desperate to get into her, you ripped open the gusset of her tights?"

I looked at Dad with wonder. She really had told him all. "Yes."

"Well in her collection, there is not only that pair you ripped, but also the six pairs that I had to rip to get into her, one pair for each of the next six days that she wanted me to re-live that weekend with her. But she got me sowwww Hot, especially the first three days, that I shot all over them before I was able to rip them open enough to get into her. She squealed each time with the delight of tempting me so highly. And then she came so hard once I did get into her that she drenched the inside of the tights.

"So, they are all there; seven pairs of tights, a hole ripped in the crotch of each, her cum staining all of them, from the inside, and three with my cum staining them, in addition, on the outside.

"I have to admit that at first I was still ... how should I say ... pissed at you both, at least, for her infidelity -- cuckoldry; and jealousy that you got her so hot.

"But I realised that it gave her a new vitality -- lease-of-life if you will; and I came to enjoy it -- revel in it, even. That first weekend, you gave her such an appreciation of her body, not as it once was, but as it was then and there -- how you saw her."

He started sobbing, "I came to love her, anew, so much!

"Thank you, again, Freddie, your Love and Love-making with your mother enhanced both our lives so much."

The Collection

True to his word, about a week after the funeral, Dad showed me 'The Collection'. I was stunned to silence. They had converted part of a smaller bedroom into a hidden 'closet'. The rest of the room had created an addition to an existing bathroom, by converting the bathroom to a wet‑room. I was aware of the bathroom extension, but was unaware of the closet, as it had been so artfully contrived.

'The Collection' comprised boxes and boxes of memories -- well, I say 'boxes', but they were -- in reality -- plastic crates. The crates were different sizes, to accommodate different quantities of items. Each box was labelled with the date, and place or places, if the hotel and restaurant were not the same.

I marvelled at the knickers/lampshade concretion from the aftermath, with Dad, of that first Date; and the tights from the Halloween Angel; still, as he said, stained with cum. The boxes were all associated with 'our' trysts; hence the Angel's leggings stained in Dad's cum were included, as an outcome of the tryst.

In the boxes were the wigs, she had used; even the 'pregnancy' prosthetics; all the clothes and shoes. When I slumped to the floor, sobbing my heart out, Dad left me to my memories.

I spent hours in there, that first time, without actually doing anything, other than re-living the sexual ecstasies; and imagining Mum taking Dad, again and again, also re-living our excesses.

I sat there, whilst, I held the 'Librarian's' pair of huge, thick, now almost board-stiff knickers; remembering my attempt at the Hugh Grant accent from Bridget Jones' Diary, as I spent the evening fucking Mum's up‑tight Librarian past the gusset of her knickers ... those knickers, that had become soaked with our juices almost to the waist-line. I remembered how I had never seen Mum looking so plain ... but God[!] I just couldn't keep my cock out of her.

Then, when I opened her first Bram's Halloween box -- her 'Goth box' -- I found her chains, with the nipple clamps and clit clamp still attached. I sat there holding them, stroking them, and letting the chains run through my fingers, as my memory slid -- through time -- back to that bed. I re-lived how she lurched and shuddered, and screamed into a pillow -- it now seemed endlessly.

As I re-lived that time, I found myself sucking the empty clit clamp, as I had sucked, and licked both it and her clit, and tugged them with my teeth as I very gently caressed her G‑spot -- thus stimulating her into those very lurches, shudders and screams. I now treasured that little gold clamp far above the value of its base material, because, during those wonderful moments of her squirting ecstasy, it had been very much 'full' -- of her.

Consignments

About five years after Mum died, I moved in with Dad; partially as a carer for him, and partially as a carer for 'The Collection'.

He lasted another year, and was glad, in the end, to let go.

I rattled around in that big house, all by myself, for a few years, then decided to 'downsize'. I bought a small-holding of about a half-acre of land, with a small cottage, and a few outbuildings.

I re-vamped one of the outbuildings, and housed 'The Collection' in there.

*

Now, my seventy-fifth birthday was last week; and so, early enough to ensure that I did it while I still had 'all my marbles', I emptied all the storage boxes of 'The Collection' into a large heap, got a couple of bottles of whisky; a cheap one for the 'Launch', and a single-malt for the memories; and a garden chair and a blanket.

I doused 'The Collection' with the cheap whisky, wrapped the blanket around me, sat on the chair, and took a long slug of the single malt, to suppress the anguish at the memories, and tossed the fire-brand onto the heap, to launch 'The Collection' to the Gods, as the Scandinavians did of old (as it is said), by fire; and watched as our trysts went up in smoke, as I drank myself into oblivion.

I said goodbye to our trysts with Love and good memories, and no regrets. And no strangers would be hanging over, and poking around in, our memories. I held them to me.

I managed to keep the fire turning over and burning; and, come morning there was nought but ashes.

And the pneumonia, which I also don't regret; nor will I fight it; so, I shall be following 'The Collection' in its journey to the Gods, in my 'sanitised' pyre, before long.

I Loved you, Mum!

Goodbye.

THE END